Worthless
by Gypsy Love
Summary: Johnny reaches the end of his rope.


It was worse than anybody knew. Johnny lay doubled up and still after his father finally walked away, staggered off to pass out in the next room. He didn't know what was hurt and what wasn't, his entire body throbbed with pain. He'd have to get up soon but right now he didn't feel like moving. He just wanted to lie here forever.

He heard his father's ragged breathing in the other room, the broken snoring. He wished, and not for the first time, that his father was dead. He used to wish this for himself, but lately the anger and the hatred he had felt for himself was turning outward, turning toward his father who did nothing but ignore him or beat him.

So Johnny sat up slowly, feeling dizzy, seeing blood from somewhere. He didn't even know where, couldn't tell. His nose or a busted lip, a gash in his forehead from the buckle of the belt, something. The sight of the blood didn't even matter to him anymore, not like when he was little and the sight of his own blood scared him. Now he didn't care. He knew how much a person could bleed.

He stood up, holding onto the kitchen table for support, feeling another wave of dizziness, feeling his head throbbing. There was blood on his jean jacket, blood on his T-shirt. Something hurt, his ribs hurt every time he breathed. He walked to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room and saw his father on the couch, his mouth open, the beard stubble clinging to his cheeks. Johnny felt a staggering wave of hatred, a wall of red in his vision. He gripped the doorway with his fingers until his knuckles turned white. He hated him.

He left, knowing that no one in his house gave a shit. He had no idea where his mother was and he didn't care. Maybe now his father had finally drank enough to die, and he'd die on the couch with the beard stubble and his mouth open. Too much to hope for. Johnny wanted to leave and never come back, never be hit again. There was nowhere to go. Even that was starting not to matter.

He had to go somewhere. There was still that little child part of him that needed to be cared for. He walked and would end up either at the Curtis's or with Dally. He overshot the Curtis's house, not seeing anyone there anyway, and hunted for Dallas. He found him in the sparse room he rented over Buck's crazy party house, and the raucous cries and yells of the drunken partiers got on his nerves.

"Johnny," Dally said, hissing his name through his teeth, his concern always looking like anger. Johnny didn't say anything, just kept his head down, looking up at Dallas through the blood. He knew Dally knew. He'd been there, too.

"What happened?" Dally said, motioning for Johnny to sit on the bed while he got supplies to clean him up. Johnny didn't answer, the words choked up and held in his closed throat. Dallas came back with wet washcloths and band-aids, cleaned the blood from Johnny's face with the gentleness of a mother, and put band-aids where he could. Johnny closed his eyes through most of it, feeling that Dallas was more of a parent to him than his own parents.

"Stay here tonight," Dally ordered him, and Johnny obeyed, taking off his jacket and slinging it on the back of a wooden chair. He smoked near the window, looking out on the streets and the cars that drove by, hearing the yells and the manic laughter from downstairs, wishing he was anywhere else. Wishing he wouldn't have to go back to his stupid house.

Late at night and Dallas had fallen asleep, his white blond hair still gleaming in the moonlight. Johnny couldn't sleep, the rage at his father keeping him awake. He shifted in the chair, feeling every ache and bruise from that beating and the one before it. It was nearly every day. Every day. Sometimes he was only shaken or shoved, slapped or punched. But a lot of times the beatings were serious and involved the belt, involved being thrown to the floor and kicked so hard his organs would bleed. He'd woken up on more than one morning pissing blood.

It wasn't just being physically hurt, that wasn't the only thing. He only felt unease at his house, unease and fear. He only jumped and flinched from all the noises and sudden movements, and not just at his house. Everywhere. Everyone thought he was a nervous wreck. And then there was the way his parents had of ignoring him, not even noticing him unless they were hacked off at something he had done. He felt worthless. He felt like nothing.

He could leave. He could live on the streets and in by-the-week rooms and at friends' houses. He could scrounge around for food and to survive, and at least no one would be hurting him so consistently. There were still the socs to worry about, and the gang fights that cropped up here and there, but it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be the constant threat of violence every day.

The sun was beginning to lighten the sky, and Dally had been asleep for hours. Johnny hadn't moved from the chair, so on top of the aches from the beating he was stiff, too. He lifted his shirt slightly and saw the dark bruises there and he stared, fascinated. He'd seen so much of that, but the dark purple/black color always seemed so strange, so uniform across his stomach and chest and sides, his ribs throbbing beneath the deep hues. He didn't know that the bruises that looked black meant the bones had bled.

Johnny stood up, feeling almost unable to stand. That beating yesterday was worse than most, and he could barely remember it. That happened to him, and had been for awhile, he couldn't recall the actual beatings, just the aftermath. He remembered coming home from school and walking into his house, smelling the overwhelming stench of beer and whiskey, hearing his father bang into some furniture and swear, and he felt the fear jolt into him. Then he was lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding and bruised. It was like nothing had happened in between. It was scaring him, and making him feel like he was crazy, that he couldn't remember.

He shook his head, walked to the window and stared out at the pink/gold of the sky. Nothing would change. It would go on and on, and there was nothing he could do about it, and the hopelessness felt complete. He blinked, his eyes dry and scratchy from staying awake all night. He didn't even know if it was a school day or not, he couldn't remember. Maybe it was Saturday and he wouldn't have to go anywhere. Maybe Dal knew. He was up now, leaning up on one elbow and smoking a Kool.

"Jesus Christ, Johnny, didn't you sleep at all?" he said, looking at the deep shadows under Johnny's eyes. Johnny shook his head no and wordlessly lit up a cigarette. He saw the sky change from the pink/gold to the plain yellow of the day.


End file.
